


six hours in august

by stonedlennon



Series: scotland in new york [1]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1970s, 1979, Canonically Depressed Character, Getting (Back) Together, M/M, New York City, Old Lovers, Past Relationship(s), Queer Culture, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9642896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/pseuds/stonedlennon
Summary: John bumps into Paul at a gay bar in New York. They try to forget each other. August, 1979.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singlepigeon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlepigeon/gifts).



> this fic is a collab between @singlepigeon and myself!! the idea was that we would create something together - me, writing; her, drawing - and in general have a bit of a cry over angsty john and paul in new york. karla, i love you, and this fic is entirely your fault :~) in case you were wondering!
> 
> i was inspired by [john's diary entry](http://www.beatlesarchives.com/_/di790807.jpg) from august 7 1979,** although i diverged for.. reasons. i know i always bang on about hating exposition, which is why i was curious about writing a piece that considered john/time/memory. i wanted to conceive of a point in which john would stop living in the past and would start to look forward to something new, to a different life, to paul. i may write a follow up for this. their dynamic in later years is fascinating to me. also, i listened to a lot of lana del rey as i wrote this, so just think of her languid dreamy nostalgic sound and you've basically nailed the tone of this fic.
> 
> if you want to picture what new york looked like in 1979, please do check out these [absolutely beautiful photographs!](http://gothamist.com/2016/10/26/1979_nyc_fear_city_photos.php#photo-8) the colour scheme is just.. ugh. brilliant.
> 
> also consider: john looking like [this](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tcw1qxbdAGY/VV5m40OnK3I/AAAAAAAAgJ8/N6uLNVYcVjA/s1600/11262132_321174008082551_8656991119509038561_n.jpg) or [this](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/09/2c/55/092c55b6ee00bc018863207995dad897.jpg), and paul looking [like this](http://i1.liverpoolecho.co.uk/incoming/article10460762.ece/ALTERNATES/s1227b/JS76821196.jpg). john with his short hair is...... dangerous..
> 
> ** please note that [aceonthebass](http://aceonthebass.tumblr.com/) very kindly pointed out that these are!! in fact!! fake diary entries!! so take from that what you will, lmao, i'm an idiot but anywaayyyyy. thank you again, sweetheart!

As much as had passed, the energy between them was always in front of them—always, somehow, in the future.

- Excerpt from _[Two of Us.](http://www.slate.com/articles/life/creative_pairs/features/2010/two_of_us/inside_the_lennonmccartney_connection_part_3.html)_

* * *

 

When Yoko’s stars said John should leave, he went.

Once he dreamed that she carried the moon on her back. When he’d told her in the morning, both propped up in their stark white bedroom with the spring sunlight pooling on the tangled sheets, she had nodded thoughtfully, her dark eyes growing distant in that way she had whenever he’d allegedly said something profound. The truth was: John was not profound. Yoko thought he was, though. And if Yoko thought that, it probably meant there was a grain of truth in there somewhere.

A grain of salt, which he took with a pinch. God knew he had enough of it for his wounds.

“You what?” John paused in kneading the lump of dough on the kitchen counter. Yoko flipped through her personal organizer with one hand and picked up her cup of sencha with the other.

“For six hours,” she repeated, frowning as she turned a page. She glanced at the dough. “That looks finished.”

“Not sticky enough,” John replied, then, “six hours? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Walk. Read. Contemplate.” Yoko raised her head to look at him. After a beat, she shrugged one shoulder. “Go downtown; you like it there. There is a [literary lunch](http://www.beatlesarchives.com/_/di790807.jpg) on, I think.”

Stalling, John said, “What about Sean? He can’t stay ‘ere by himself, can he.”

“So, get the nanny.” Snapping her planner shut, Yoko hopped off the counter stool. Her cloud of dark hair waved past him as she put her cup in the sink. When she put a hand on his shoulder to lean up kiss his cheek, John resisted for a breathless instant. Yoko paused; he frowned and resumed kneading the dough.

Yoko gestured her chin at it. “That’s done.”

John set his jaw. “Not _sticky_ enough. Thought ye had a meeting t’go to.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened. When Yoko exhaled, it was a disappointed sound; a sound that used to elicit a flicker of terror deep within him. Christ, those first few months together were like walking a tightrope strung above a pool of sharks, one of which had J.P. MCCARTNEY stamped right across its big forehead.

Once upon a time, Yoko would exhale and John would feel his very bones tremble with the urge to please her.

“Have you screamed today?” Yoko asked. She drew away as John struggled to answer, putting her planner in her bag, finding her sunglasses on the spindly glass table by the door. She turned around to look at him with that inscrutable expression. “John, are you listening?”

John started scraping dough from between his fingers. “When do the stars say I’m supposed to be outta here, then?”

There was a rustle of paper. “Two,” Yoko replied belatedly.

“Christ, what am I supposed to do for six fuckin’ hours…”

“You should scream. You need it. I have to go; I’ll be late.” Her sandals clacked across the wooden floorboards. John, feeling miserable, watched her go in his peripheral vision. Sensing the weight of his gaze, Yoko turned around with one hand on the front door. She tilted her head. “You need to leave, John. I think you feel it too.”

Damn Yoko and her fuckin’ sixth sense. “Yeah, yeah,” John muttered, resuming his kneading.

Six hours. In John’s world, that was a short lifetime. What did they say about dogs and years? One human year to seven dogs, or some mad rubbish like that? _Paul would know,_ John thought gloomily. Paul always seemed to know about useless things like animals. All that farm air probably made him a bit barmy.

One night, when John had had a bit to drink and he was feeling lonely (Yoko, stiff on her side, resistant to seduction; Sean, at a little mate’s house for a sleepover; John, in the living room, with the whiskey), he gave Paul a ring. There had been a prolonged pause after the receiver had been picked up, during which John had stared unseeingly at the illuminated canopy of Central Park and rested the ice cool glass against his knee, listening to the sound of rustling and Paul waking up.

“Hullo?” Paul’s voice was hoarse with sleep. An unbidden memory of Paul in bed (‘64, maybe, or ‘66?), tousle-haired and sporting a shadow of stubble, tightened dangerously around John’s throat.

“Hello?” Paul repeated, more clearly this time. Then, “John? Issat you?”

He’d hung up. Alright, not his proudest moment.

The phone rang shrilly in the blackened living room. John had snatched up the receiver and hissed, “Some of us are tryin’ t’sleep, y’know!”

“I knew it was you,” Paul said fuzzily. God, John could picture him so clearly: each slow, dusty blink; the way his mouth would part as he thought about what to say; even the dark hair on his forearms could make John’s pulse run rapid.

John swallowed and tasted the sticky sweetness of whiskey. “What gave it away?”

“The fact that it’s four in the bloody morning.” Paul cleared his throat. John imagined him picking up that naff alarm clock he’d kept from _Sgt. Pepper._ “What is it there?”

“Dunno,” John mumbled, and took a slug of whiskey. Paul’s greyhound ears pricked. “Are you drinking?”

Scoffing, John said, “Leave off, Nosy Nancy. So what?”

There was a cautious pause. “Lennon, alone, with the whiskey.” Paul made an amused noise. “Yoko not puttin’ out, then?”

“Oh, fuck off, Paul,” he snapped, suddenly furious he’d bothered to ring at all. “Where’s Linda? Squeezin’ out another pup to add t’ye litter?”

“That’s nice,” Paul replied frostily. “Wake me up, fine. But if ye wanted to slag off Linda, you really can get fucked.”

“Fine,” John said, and Paul went, “Alright, fine!” And they’d hung up on each other. Now that John thought about it, he certainly hung up before Paul. The stab of righteousness sounded a bit like Paul and his big eyes taunting, _[Come on and call me back again.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OJnUIEvLYMc)_

With Yoko gone and Sean AWOL, John glared down at the stupid lump of dough. He ripped his hands free and whipped around to the sink to wash his hands. Pale sluggy lumps whirled slowly around Yoko’s tea cup. He waited until the water had filled it, cloudy with flour, then turned off the tap. John leaned his weight against the counter and closed his eyes.

Bread, sleep, wake. Not so long ago, “bake” had meant something very different in the Lennon vocabulary. A restless energy shifted in his limbs, as if he’d been static for too long. The Dakota rested quiet as a shroud around him. Its enormous white walls, its pristine furniture. Yoko padding about like a little dark ghost, a slip of a thing that went from room to room with stoic efficiency. Not sticky enough, indeed. He was the bread man; he ought to _know._

Opening his eyes with renewed irritation, John forced himself to go ahead and be useful. He tidied the kitchen, phoned the nanny, found Sean alive and well, et cetera. By the time he’d quelled Sean’s mood (scrabbling around beneath the bed to find that stupid pebble; Sean grinning toothily at him, eyelashes damp with tears) and his own (a cigarette; half an hour of television), the nanny had finally arrived and Yoko’s stars were apt to start falling from the sky.

“Will you want dinner when you’re back?” The nanny asked from the carpet, where she was crouched down beside Sean. He was absorbed with one of his Japanese colouring books.

John crammed a straw hat onto his flyaway hair and shoved on a pair of sunglasses. As he tucked his salmon-coloured shirt into his pale trousers, he vaguely noticed how much weight he’d lost recently. All that screaming, probably. He glanced over at her, mind already two blocks south. “What? No, no, s’fine, I’ll do it meself.” Five minutes to two. Was that tempting Fate’s wrath? Patting his pockets to make sure he had his cigarettes, John stopped himself at the door just in time. He returned to Sean and kissed his head.

“Look at my pebble,” Sean babbled, dropping a pencil in favour of holding it up in one sticky hand.

John widened his eyes. “It’s great, isn’t it? You’re so lucky.”

“It’s mine,” Sean told him, and John carded a hand through Sean soft, dark hair and smiled. Glancing up at the nanny, John said, “I’m goin’ out. Keep him happy.”

New York was a city to get lost in. That was partly why John loved it so much. As he slipped out of the Dakota and into the warm August sunshine, he felt the thrum of the city beneath his feet. It rose within him like a heartbeat, filling his veins and blossoming in his lungs when he breathed in that acrid scent of smoke and urine. No one told you New York smelled like piss, but there it was. Matter of fact, hadn’t Paul said something about it the first time they came here?

There they were, standing shoulder to shoulder in Central Park as the photographer bustled around them, saying garrulous things like, “You boys look swell!” and “How’d ya like the East Coast, guys?” John had fidgeted his way through the entire ordeal and Paul elbowed him in the ribs.

“Not long now,” Paul said through a gritted smile.

“Ya look great, Paulie!” John hissed in his ear, hamming up a terrible American accent. A breeze tossed Paul’s hair into his face, Paul’s shoulder shaking under the urge to laugh. John had grinned against his earlobe and growled like a dog.

“Will you two cut it out?” Ringo complained, stamping his feet. A gust of frigid wind made them shudder as one. Frowning unhappily, Ringo shot John a morose look and said, “If ye keep blagging on, we’ll never be free.”

“Hey, boys!” The late afternoon light shot straight over the treetops, casting them all in a strange blue gaze. The camera lens loomed like an eye, the photographer peeking out to grin at them. “Give us a laugh, eh? ‘A laugh’, that’s what you fellas say, ain’t it?”

“We can’t,” John retorted, “Brian’s here.”

Paul and Ringo dissolved into sniggers. Behind the photographer, Brian narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“We’ll have a laugh later,” Paul added, blinking innocently.

“We can only do it when we’re alone, see,” Ringo said.

John clutched Paul’s shoulder and pretended to swoon. “Quick, lads, light me a laugh!”

That’d been over a decade ago. _God,_ John thought, hands in pockets as he strode along. His twenty-one-year-old self had seen sense; it really was downhill from there. No one told you that reaching middle age was like kicking the chair from beneath you. John had felt like he was teetering on the edge for years, barely standing straight, lashed to the mast by Plastic Ono and Yoko and Sean as New York whipped into frenzied waves beneath him. He wondered what it’d be like to drown. More specifically, whether it would be worth swimming into the Hudson to do the job. What would kill you first: the pollution, or apathy? John didn’t know if he had the energy to kill himself. Every author who’d offed himself made it sound like an awful lot of hard work. He wasn’t sure he could be bothered.

John bought a hot dog from a vendor and ate it joylessly on a park bench. The roar of traffic rose in a dull wall around him. The near-constant burble of motion and conversation was simultaneously melodic and exhausting. He wished he were in bed. He wished he were in bed, with a blunt, with Paul beside him.

If middle age was kicking the stool out, he supposed that his own cowardice had tied the noose. Not long after the last phone call had Paul sent him a postcard.

> _John,_
> 
> _Coming to N.Y.C. because of the band. Take from that what you will._
> 
> _Give me a bell if you like._
> 
> _Paul_

And on the front was a pastoral photograph of Scotland: rolling emerald hills dotted with sheep, a distant, smoke-stacked farm house, the sky grey and swollen with rain.

[“Have ye thought of usin’ bagpipes?”](http://www.beatlesarchives.com/_/di770419.jpg) John had suggested once, the phone crammed into the crook of his neck. He’d been trying to restring his guitar and it kept snapping up to smack him in the face.

“At the beginning of the song?” Paul sounded dubious and somewhat suspicious – and with good reason. John was about to say, “I’m _jokin’,_ Paul, Christ, talk about scrapin’ the bottom of the bloody barrel,” when Paul hummed thoughtfully and murmured, “Could work, that.”

Song-writing by distance. It was a far cry from sitting together, legs pressed, the necks of their guitars angled out like opened arms, heads bent to focus on Paul’s notebook on the carpet of Forthlin. _Another McCartney-Lennon Original._ Paul had lovely handwriting. John had passed a thumb over the imprint of pen in the postcard, half-imagining the weight of Paul’s hand as it passed across it, the warmth of his skin.

Paul had come strolling into John’s apartment back in London, all easy grace and pleasantness. He’d leaned one hip against the kitchen counter and fixed John with a sweet smile. “’Lennon-McCartney’?”

 _Uh oh._ That had been John’s immediate thought. John finished buttering his sandwich and avoided Paul’s piercing look. “Yeah, well, sounds better, doesn’t it.”

“Not really,” Paul said smoothly. “’McCartney-Lennon’ has just as much of a swing to it.”

“L comes before M.” Suddenly irritable, John took an enormous bite of bread. He chewed loudly and levelled a flat look at Paul, whose lips had pursed in that way when he thought you were a right fuckin’ twat but he was too decent to say anything about it.

“Is that what Brian suggested?” Paul asked.

“More or less,” John lied. One little suggestion, that was all it had taken. John, in a panama hat and shades, legs crossed effeminately in the Spanish sunshine. Poor old Eppy. That should have been on his gravestone, actually – _Poor old Eppy. He held out for nothing._ Come to think of it, the last part would probably end up on John’s epitaph too.

John watched a gaggle of children tumble around on the lawn. The August air hung stagnant, suffusing the atmosphere with a mellow haze that was part exhaust fumes and heady sunlight. Heat undulated off the pavement. John uncrossed his legs and regretted eating the hot dog. He patted his pockets for a cigarette, which he lit with a silver lighter Paul had given him for some birthday. Taking a short drag, John dropped his cigarette hand to rest off the side of the bench. The puff of smoke hovered warmly before him; his lungs burned with the nicotine.

Gone were the chain-smoking days. But when you were in another bloody interview, and Paul licked those plump pink lips and delivered another rote answer, and you were randy and bored, lighting up was a suitable alternative to jumping Paul’s bones.

 _Give me a bell._ He hadn’t. Why hadn’t he?

John stood abruptly. He began to walk without a destination in mind. The city rolled around him. He thought of Yoko and whatever business deal she’d be striking the iron for. He wondered whether Sean had been put down for a nap yet. One of the cats had had kittens. God knew how it’d ended up the stick, considering he’d thought they were all neutered. Yoko had been calm but clearly annoyed at the whole thing.

“The cat’s gettin’ fat,” John commented over breakfast, watching the little pedigree wind around the legs of the kitchen table.

“She’s not fat.” Yoko didn’t look up from her newspaper. “She’s pregnant.”

A spiteful response had flickered on his tongue – _Well, you’d know –_ but he’d swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee instead. Days later, and he mentioned taking the thing to a vet or something, vaguely recalling Paul’s tan Labrador and the litter of black puppies she’d had on the tiles of their laundry. Yoko had merely raised her eyebrows and said, “If you’d had her neutered, we wouldn’t need a vet.”

The memory alone fanned his residual anger. The stupid cat had ended up falling out of a window, hadn’t it? “This is my fault too, I’m guessing,” John snapped pre-emptively. Yoko had fixed him with a cold look and told him she was going out.

“To visit that fuckin’ gallery?” John yelled at her retreating back. He’d felt useless and lumpy and lonely and Havadtoy was none of those things.

John chucked his cig into the street, exhaling a stream of smoke over one shoulder. As he slipped through the crowd, he realized he was still thinking about those damn kittens. A cardboard box full, big-eyed with bones like twigs, mewing and weaving like cobras when he waggled his fingers over them. Sean had been curiously disinterested in their existence, although John had bounced both child and kitten on his knees, saying nonsense shite like, “Look, they’re so small,” and “Here, Sean, d’you want to hold one?” Sean, with his peculiar long nose and his quick dark eyes, watching the wriggling creature with a detached sort of disdain, had said, “No.”

There was a savage karma to the fact that neither one of his children were really his own. Julian, with his Powell manners; Sean, an echo of his mother in every respect. The knowledge was heavy as a stone in his gut. Maybe that, in addition to the pebbles he could fill his pockets with, would help him sink to the bottom of the river.

He wasn’t hungry, although eating seemed the sort of thing to do on an afternoon like this. John strode a couple blocks further downtown. The scenery slowly shifted from the palatial facades of buildings like the Dakota to the grey grime of industrial New York. Skyscrapers towered against the bottle blue sky. Yellow taxis clamoured at traffic lights, the arms of their drivers hooked over the lip of cracked windows. Sweaty upper lips and fatigued eyes passed him by. John tipped his head back and watched an aeroplane drift slowly over the gaps in the buildings. From above, John knew, New York looked like a maze. A dank, wondrous maze that Carroll would have adored.

John vaguely remembered a deli on a corner somewhere. He’d only the most distant idea of which corner, and what the place itself looked like, and his eyebrows raised in surprise when he looked across a choked intersection to see it there. The red awnings were static in the unmoving city air, the white and green painted sign on the broad front window reminding John of Milan. The delis there had been cramped, family-run affairs, with bustling _nonnas_ and squabbling husband-and-wife proprietors. Pasta strung from the ceiling, fresh bread, olives.

Paul, tanned and clean shaved, leaning on the counter to ask for something in Italian. John, unable to look away. The top of Paul’s white linen shirt had been unbuttoned one centimetre too far for John to concentrate; the hollow of Paul’s throat looked warm with sweat.

“ _Por favour…_ Oh, shit, that’s Spanish, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” John told him dryly, and Paul had rolled his eyes.

“Alright, then, maestro Lennon,” he retorted, grinning. His sunglasses had been pushed to the top of his head and had tangled somewhat in his hair. “You show me how it’s done, then.”

Smirking, John had swaggered over to the counter. He propped an elbow onto the pastry cabinet and thoughtfully considered the rows of tiny cakes. Looking up into the deadpan expression of the old grandmother serving him, John had gone, “ _Bonjour, mademoiselle,”_ and Paul had burst out laughing.

John crossed the road and went into the deli. The air conditioning came upon him like a breath of God. Taking off his sunglasses and hooking them into the neck of his shirt, John caught the eye of the woman behind the counter and smiled hello.

“Boiling out there,” he explained.

“It will reach one hundred and seven,” she told him in a subtle accent, widening her eyes. “I am not going out today. You are mad.”

“More than you know,” John commented. He wandered over to the display case, which hummed in refrigeration. Pointing to one of the sandwiches, John looked up at the girl and asked, “That’s not vegetarian, is it?”

Her thick black ponytail bounced as she shook her head. “No, no, not vegetarian. We have some over here, if you want -?”

“God no.” Screw Yoko and her stupid diet. John pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “I’ll have that big one, the salami. And a cold drink, if ye’ve got anythin’.”

She retrieved a plate and opened the cabinet. “ _Cinotto?”_

“Sounds cold to me.” John passed her a couple of crumpled bills. “Ta. Can I sit here?”

“Out the back.” Handing over a table number, she pointed to an open doorway at the back of the shop. It was almost hidden between the hanging prosciutto and decorative vine leaves. A warm breeze made the plastic flaps stir against the doorframe.

“Thanks.” John wound through the shop. The courtyard was red-bricked and tiny, cluttered with plastic chairs and tables covered with a loose striped canopy. Some white clouds scudded over the sky. Low, pleasant conversation accompanied John to a seat near the back in the shade. The sun continued to beat down, exacerbated by the heat of the city, making sweat prickle between his shoulder blades. A fat drop of sweat slid down his back and into the back of his trousers. John pulled off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. The armpits of his pink shirt were damp and warm.

The girl arrived with his sandwich and drink. It was bloody huge, and John wasn’t that hungry, but he resolved to linger here for as long as he could, safe in the anonymity of an Italian courtyard. He felt a bit like bunkering down for the war. Yoko’s stars were on an air strike.

The _cinotto_ was basically Coke. John drank it from a paper straw. Peace, heavy as the airless afternoon, clustered on his shoulders. The sound of the city felt very far away, as if he existed underwater.

Wandering and being lost reminded him of Paris. Most things reminded him of Paris, really, if he was being honest with himself (a hitherto rare concept that occurred more regularly now that he was getting older: thirty-nine, Christ, imagine). The tail-end of his own song drifted through his mind: _Why don’t we take off alone…_

“Me?” Paul stared at him, his cheeks rising in colour. “You wanna take me to Paris?”

John had shrugged uncomfortably. “Well, yeah. Why not. You’re me mate. Don’t wanna go with anyone else.” Then, terrified that he’d somehow misread all those snatched glances and bitten lips and double-entendres, he added, “S’just an idea, mate. S’not like I’m askin’ ye to run away with me.”

Something had flickered in Paul’s warm hazel eyes, and John had suddenly thought, _Aren’t I?_

He wished he’d known that that had been the last time they’d been truly free.

They’d been freezing, that first time. Paul’s nose was pinched red with cold, only his top lip showing above his muffler, looking like a sullen penguin in that big duffel coat he hated and which John teased him mercilessly for. Sharing that crummy bed in that godawful dump of a hotel, all tangled limbs and hushed laughter. Paul pliant beneath him, the soft welcome of his lips, his hands eagerly smoothing over John’s shoulder blades. John still remembered how Paul had felt in his mouth: the heavy weight of his cock on John’s tongue, the sheer sensuality of it, the bitterness of pre-come. He’d joked about the fact Paul got wet like a bird for him. Paul had been mortified. The memory tangled in his chest. John thought about how he’d pressed open-mouthed kisses along Paul’s jaw in apology and touched a hand to the centre of his bare chest. _I’m jokin’, love, come ‘ead,_ he’d murmured into Paul’s skin, _come to me, love, come on,_ and Paul had shuddered and let John pull him back against the pillows.

 _Paris infected us._ John said it in the heat of another stupid fight, probably over Apple or Yoko or the sound of John’s recorded pants clouding the walls of that tense business meeting, Paul looking not at the tape deck but the wall above John’s head, his mask perfectly in place. _It did, Paul, it changed us and we can’t go back._

“No,” Paul corrected, deadly calm, “ _India_ changed us.” John still felt the thundercrack of those words, like they’d twisted in the air and physically snapped against his sternum. Paul’s cheeks had bloomed red until he looked not old and fat and bearded but terribly young and miserable for it. _You’re all I have left,_ John wanted to scream, _don’t you get that? You’re the only one who stayed._ But Paul didn’t stay, in the end. They never did.

Yoko wouldn’t either.

John picked out an olive from his sandwich and put it to one side. He needed to confront her about it, probably, maybe. Sometime soon, before his fear sabotaged his voice box any further. First, she’d castrated his muse, then she’d ripped out his tongue. _No,_ a small something in the back of his mind murmured, _you did that. It’s just easier to blame the bird for your own cage._

How about: are you leaving me? John pictured the scene: them, in the studio, penned in by canvas and hanging photographs and rows of the tape decks Paul had taught him to use on a frigid evening in late ’66. Or: do you love me?

 _Too vague._ John drank some more of the Italian Coke. Yoko was too intelligent for deliberate misinterpretation. Paul would misinterpret it, if only to be irritating and clever and vaguely flirtatious, as they always were with each other. _Now?_ John imagined Paul’s response. _Or later?_

Yoko would say yes or no. That was how this had all started. John, climbing a step ladder. Expecting to see GO FUCK YOURSELF or GOD IS DEAD and seeing YES. In small, spiky capital letters. Y-E-S.

“Yes,” she’d said in Gibraltar, and “Yes,” when they first met Klein, and “Yes,” when Paul had stared at John from across the office and brokenly asked, “You’re leaving the band?”

John could always go for the tried and true question for all unhappy marriages and drifting souls. Are you seeing someone else? Yoko: who never needed anyone, not really, least of old grotty stupid John Lennon.

“Yes,” she’d say, and John would wait for the world to tip on its axis.

He wondered what would happen if it didn’t. Tip, that is. The end of his paper straw was growing soggy with drink. If the world didn’t end, and he survived Yoko leaving, what then?

Paul wouldn’t say anything if John phoned him up now. There would be a few solid minutes of silence as Paul let him languish in the eddies of his own failure, before he’d clear his throat, and ask about Sean. No, it’d be about the music. It always was, with Paul. A familiar tide of envy rose in John’s throat. How ridiculous and childish that he still thought Paul’s cup runneth over after Wings’ last release. John snorted to himself and lifted his drink up to take a sip.

“You’ll never be a _great,_ Paul,” he’d once told him nastily, “because ye never write about yourself. He, she, them. That bastard over there. Never _you.”_

“That’s how I express what I feel,” Paul replied, sounding stony. “I’m sorry I don’t feel so fucked up I’ve got to take a photo with me cock out.”

“No, you’ve not done that for a while,” John snapped, and Paul had smiled, “Not for you, y’mean.”

Belatedly John focused on the muggy, orange sunlight on the back wall of the deli. The late afternoon had inched closer without him realizing it, the temperature dropping to a simmer warmly against his skin. John glanced around and noticed that the other customers had left. His sandwich, half eaten, remained on his plate. John finished the last of his flat drink.

He should call to make sure Sean was okay. Sean was always okay – he was a wonder kid, impervious to accruing bumps or scratches, usually in a mellow mood – but John felt the itch along his fingers as he did when they were parted for too long. He jokingly referred to the sensation as his homing instinct; Yoko thought it an attempt to make up for lost time.

John went inside and asked to use the telephone. It rang only twice before the nanny answered. Satisfied that Sean was, indeed, not dead or dying, John hung up and went out to loiter on the street. He lit his last cigarette. The nicotine zipped through his veins, giving him a post-lunch rush. Ordinarily he’d slope off to nap for an hour or two, but without a clock he had only the vaguest sense of time.

The world seemed to slip slowly past him. Commuters going home hurried past, their shoes clicking on the sun-warmed pavement. Traffic blared, stop signs blinked, from somewhere uptown an ambulance began to wail, the sound reverberating and sailing along the enormous buildings until it plunged into John’s ear. He had a distant notion of finding a bar, maybe a jazz club. Now he knew he was getting old: jazz. Only once before, in Hamburg, had he relented enough to listen to all those sad solo saxophones and their sloe-eyed players. Paul used to like jazz. Perhaps he still did. It seemed like the sort of thing homely, fatherly J.P. McCartney would enjoy.

John pictured Paul _domesticatim:_ shaggy haired, three-day growth, turning to talk to little Stella as he pottered about the kitchen. He probably owned an apron, the twit. The vision was enhanced by a heavily pregnant Linda on an armchair in the background, swollen feet propped up. John sucked in a lungful of smoke.

Going back to the Dakota was an arduous task. It wasn’t the walking – John had turned into a long-legged bird, these past few years – but rather the prospect of facing Yoko. God knew if she’d returned from her meeting. Or if she’d even buzz the bloody door open. Once John had had to stand in the courtyard and yell up until a dark head had poked out from the third floor.

“Let me in, you crazy bitch!” John had railed, but Yoko had merely called down, “Try again later.”

So, the Dakota was out. No whiskey-induced midnight phone calls to Nowhere Man would be made tonight.

Maybe he should stay out. He sort of felt like being anonymous. He wanted music, loud music, and lots of it. And really, most of all, he felt like having a shag.

John couldn’t be bothered contemplating Yoko’s recent resistance to him. Perhaps she’d been getting it too often from that Sam bloke. That had never been a problem with Yoko before, but people changed.

Operating on instinct, John began to walk towards Seventh Avenue. The crowd parted around him, snatches of conversation passing in their wake. John finished his cigarette by 12th Street, at which point he was in desperate need of a sit down and an ice cold whiskey. He’d draped his jacket over one arm as he walked, and he could feel the dampness between his shoulder blades and beneath his arms. His hair curled against his forehead beneath the brim of his straw hat. John took it off and gave it to a homeless man on the corner.

“A Lennon original,” John told him.

A peculiar sense of weightlessness settled in his bones. He felt cast out, set to sea, left to fend for himself. Would it be better to ask Yoko straight up if she was having an affair, or would it be better to await the inevitable? Both immobilized him with fear. The former assumed she wouldn’t toss his own infidelities in his face; the latter had no expiry date. They could be eighty when she decided to up sticks.

 _Christ,_ John thought in sudden panic. Fifty years from now. In New York, with Yoko. Kneading dough. A hopeless, fat, unmusical loser.

John stopped on the corner of 7th and 14th. The club across the way was burgeoning with the early evening, men strolling slowly up the front steps, greeting each other and laughing in the doorway. As John watched, the sign hanging outside lit up. The sun had fallen swiftly towards the horizon, though it lingered in the sultry blue sky. Steam from the subway billowed upwards into the hot, dry air.

John passed a hand through his wispy auburn hair. It fluffed around his ears, slightly damp with sweat. He left the sunglasses on; although he didn’t care whether anyone saw him at a gay club, he also didn’t fancy breaking his self-imposed exile in quite such a fashion. The neon letters of BARBARY COAST began to blink in sequence.

There was something anachronistic about walking up the stone steps to what used to be a bank, but now housed a shimmying array of [Donna Summer devotees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IdEhvuNxV8). It was clever; John found himself greeting the bouncer with an, “Alright?” to which he received a low whistle and a, “He _llo,_ Daddy’s home.”

Inside it was blessedly cool. The clientele seemed to suit the vaulted ceiling and long, teak bar with hanging lights: older men with tumblers gathered at some of the standing wooden tables, talking shop; the younger fellas seemed content to linger near the D.J. desk, which was set up behind an old teller’s booth. A slow R&B number mingled with the low conversation.

John ordered a whiskey neat at the bar. Behind his sunglasses he could study the room in peace. He propped one elbow on the counter and lifted his tumbler to his mouth. Ice clinked against the cut glass. Honestly, he’d sort of expected gyrating dudes or, at the very least, men in leather.

The lowkey atmosphere itched the scratch John had felt all afternoon. As if to punctuate the point about his age, his knees began to ache.

Picking up his glass and going over to a booth that overlooked the dance floor, John lazily resumed watching and waiting. The whiskey slid down like honey. He gestured to the barman for another. It was delivered with a little cocktail napkin. John found a pen in his trouser pocket and began to jot his first impressions down.

Personally, he blamed Eppy. Damn him for arousing John’s interest back in Spain. Brian had no need to know that John hadn’t been playing at liking men, but the freedom of lowering his sunglasses to watch passing boys, to sip affectedly at his drink, or to comment “How about that one, then?” had stirred something deep within him.

He’d been a bastard, he knew that now. Reclining in the sun only to pretend to forget the sun cream. Walking slowly out of the surf. Crossing his legs and feeling Brian’s gaze linger. That was power. No wonder women always pretended they didn’t feel you looking.

Yoko had been so casual when he’d told her. “I was playing it up,” John tried to explain. “It wasn’t real. It was fake; I was being fake.”

“Fake how?” Yoko asked, cross legged on the carpet. She passed him the blunt.

“It was all for show,” John replied, “all of it. The whole time I was there, I thought, ‘this is me, I am experiencing this at this moment’. I wasn’t present. It was a fake me putting on a show for a bloke I knew liked it all.”

“You were disassociating. I think that would be normal.” The weed smelled pungent and sweet in their living room.

“There’s nothin’ normal about pretendin’ you’re not there.”

“You were afraid.” Yoko could only say it because they were both stoned. “Of what it might mean, possibly. If you enjoyed being effeminate to please Brian.”

They had been so young back then. _We are all bisexual,_ they agreed. It’s the world that’s fucked. Years later, Yoko had suggested a man to keep him company. They had settled on May. John couldn’t remember the reason why.

John finished his second whiskey. He was ordering another when a boy with a crew cut came up to the table.

“Are you waiting for someone?” He sounded as if he were asking John’s permission; like he was this kid’s fuckin’ dad.

“Yeah,” John replied. Then, because the whiskey simmered in his veins, “Sorry, mate.”

The bloke only smiled. “I should have known. Enjoy your drink.” How cordial, very polite. As if they were neighbours exchanging pleasantries over the gardenias.

It had been a long time since John had freaked out about anything. Like _really_ freaked out. Probably all those years of pills numbing his reactions to things, making him feel slightly faraway. Of course, that could be the whiskey talking. Should he be freaking out? John looked around the bar. The hour had tipped somewhere from early to mid evening. There were more men now, and the D.J. had turned the music up in a subtle attempt to get people to dance. Discussion flowed languidly. Everyone was smiling. Big teethed jocks with pert nosed swots. A couple of the men had grey hair.

John had found a grey hair the other morning. He’d nearly had a fuckin’ coronary right there in the loo. Yoko had been nonplussed.

“Don’t you care that I’m the ugliest man who ever roamed the face of the Earth?”

Yoko didn’t have to tell him to stop being dramatic: she communicated this entirely by raising a single eyebrow. Instead, she asked, “Are you taking Sean out today?”

John took a slow slug of whiskey. It mingled with the _cinotto_ in his gut, making his synapses fire with sugar and alcohol. His hand shook subtly as he lifted the glass again. He wasn’t as inoculated against sugar as Yoko was: television tended to encourage a peculiar sloth that John hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager at Mendips.

Some of the younger men had started to dance. A Bee Gees song was on, the one from that movie with that poofter Travolta, and hips were shimmying and long legs strutting. The lights had turned down low, illuminating the bar space from below, casting long dramatic shadows up into the vaulted ceiling. It gave the impression of being in a cave; John thought instantly of the Cavern.

He was debating cadging a cigarette and maybe ordering another whiskey when a new wave came into the bar. This crowd were slightly rowdier – laughing to each other, hands on backs, loud exclamations of surprise or gossip – and instantly the mood shifted. The music thrummed in John’s bones. The bass plucked at his veins. He needed a piss.

John managed out of the booth and went off in search. When he found the loo, it was occupied by a tall black man and his friend, both of whom were doing coke on the side of the sink.

“That kind of night, eh, fellas?” John asked afterwards, washing his hands.

“Honey, it’s always that kind of night.” Tipping his head back and sniffing, the bloke blinked a few times at the ceiling. When he met John’s gaze, his pupils were blown wide. A slow smile curled along his mouth. “Care to partake?”

“No, man, I don’t do that shit anymore.” John’s reflection was a dire reminder of how much he _didn’t_ suit this world. He patted a hand over his hair, which stuck up like a bird’s nest, and adjusted the collar of his pink shirt, which dipped to reveal sharp collarbones. His stomach was flat and his hips narrow where his belt fastened.

The two blokes shared an inaudible joke over the coke. One of them leaned against the sink beside John and stared at his profile. “Why the ‘shades?”

“Maybe I’m famous,” John replied.

“Yeah,” he snorted, “and I’m Patrick Swayze. Come on, Rico.”

They clattered out of the bathroom, the swing door bringing in a gust of music and laughter. Maybe he should go home. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted a shag anymore. Alone in the red-tiled room, John experimentally adjusted his crotch. He could always go to one of those glory hole joints a few blocks down. They had sprung up like mushrooms in the past few months; a number of Yoko’s more flamboyant arty pals hadn’t stopped going on about them. The wonders of free sex! Thank God for Stonewall.

A familiar tide of bitterness welled on his tongue. John stared at his reflection for a moment longer before pushing away and back into the bar. The music pounded against his eardrums. _I’m glad you’re home,_[Anita sang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=URAqnM1PP5E), _now did you_ really _miss me?_

Some bastards had stolen his booth. John hovered on the edge of the dancefloor, torn between fucking off home and going over to stake his claim. He went over to the bar instead. The press of bodies was warm and sweaty, men curling into each other and flirting, many leaning against the counter and calling to the barman.

John elbowed his way through the crush. _Ring my bell, ring my bell, ring my bell._ “Whiskey, neat,” John said loudly. The bartender mimed not being able to hear. John’s sternum pressed hard against the edge of the counter. “Whiskey neat!”

He kept his head down. Someone jostled against his side and he jerked away. He thought someone said, “Hey, is that…” John passed the bartender a crumpled note and accepted his drink. The first swallow went down easily; the second slid down like water.

“Might want to ease up there, cowboy.”

John turned his head slightly. The figure by his side was pressed close, his voice pitched low enough to be caught between laughter and flirtation. An American accent curled his vowels.

Adjusting his weight, John glanced down into his glass. “Could always join me. Make a night of it.”

The man did laugh then, the sound bright and strangely familiar. “Maybe I will. Let me buy you a drink – what d’you reckon?”

John toyed with his bottom lip between his teeth. He ought to go home. He ought to call to make sure Sean was alright. But something pressed against the back of his mind. In a voice that sounded awfully like his old Teddy Boy act, it murmured, _Who the fuck cares?_

“Yeah.” John threw back the rest of his whiskey. If he wanted to pull at a strange gay bar he ought to take a step up from single slugs. Licking his lips, he put his glass down on the counter. The opening chords to a heady, upbeat number wove through the crowd. With his pulse sounding loud in his ears, John turned around.

A pair of hazel eyes widened at him. John froze.

 _Darling, you’re no different from the rest._ Fuck Elton and his fucking disco music! _[Can’t you see it’s love you really need?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fw1ulSbMBiw)_

Paul’s hair fell over his forehead and curled darkly around his ears. Jowls had set in. Subtle, but there they were. His eyebrows still arched in surprise; his eyelashes fanned as he blinked slowly, no doubt stalling for time. In his loose white shirt and jeans Paul looked like half the blokes in here: available, good-looking, fit. A long-buried curl of desire unwound in John’s chest. Paul abruptly closed his mouth. He glanced at John’s whiskey glass and cleared his throat.

“I –”

“Save it,” John snapped. He was a stupid berk for even coming here. Should have known that Wings over Whatever would land in New York. Their Apple was back in London, and still Paul had to come take a bite of John’s.

“I was _going to say_ it’s good to see you.” Paul’s eyes flashed in irritation. The bartender leaned towards him and said, “What’ll you have, man?” but Paul waved him away with a sharp movement. He propped one elbow on the counter and put his other hand on his hip. The way he was watching John sent something nervous skittering through him.

Where was bloody Yoko when you needed her?

“Can’t say the same,” John snipped. Then, in a drawl, “J.P. McCartney, in a gay bar, without the wife.”

“Shut up, John.” Paul glanced around them fruitlessly. The music was too loud. John had to watch his mouth to get any sense of the drivel he was spouting. Paul looked up at him through his short fringe. “Where’s _your_ wife?”

“Drop that fuckin’ ridiculous accent,” John sneered. “Ye sound like you’re sellin’ pretzels on a street corner.”

“When in New York,” Paul quipped with a flicker of a smile. His expression shuttered in the next instant. “How’s this, then?” John snorted at the pronounced Scouse.

“Jim’d have ye strung up in five minutes flat.”

“I am married to an American,” Paul reminded him.

John itched for another whiskey. “She squeezed out that little fella yet?”

“Yes,” Paul replied suspiciously. “How’d ye know?”

Swallowing past the unexpected pain, John said, “I’m not a total hermit, ye know.”

“Coulda fooled me.” The bartender came back around. Paul gazed up at him for a long beat before smiling and shaking his head.

John rolled his eyes and said savagely, “Just have a _fuckin’_ drink, Paul. One drink won’t hurt ye.”

“I didn’t come here just for a drink.” The implication in his words made John’s heart thump quickly. Their gaze met. Paul inhaled and pulled his eyes away to scan the crowd.

“You’re here t’pick up?”

“That was the plan,” Paul said dryly. He flicked back to John before shifting his weight.

John’s mind worked slowly. “You came _here_ to find cheap sex?” After a beat, he added, “With a man?”

“Yes, alright!” Paul glared at him. “This isn’t the first time, y’know. I do have a… life. Outside music and stuff.”

“A gay sex life,” John deadpanned.

Alarmed, Paul darted a look around them. “Would you keep your voice down?”

“We’re in a bloody gay bar, Paul. I think they’re fairly familiar with the idea by now.”

“Don’t you know it,” a passing bloke quipped, shooting them a flirtatious look. Paul instantly smiled back and said, “Too right.” When he found John staring flatly at him, he looked defensive. “What?”

“Some things never change,” John said. Just thinking about the way Paul flirted sent a shiver through him. Even at fifteen he’d been a terror: all big eyes and sweet smiles and, “Oh, Mrs Smith, may I come in?” And Mimi, bless her heart, would look at Paul by the front gate, one hand on the latch and the other on his bike, and go, “No, you may not.”

“Anyroad, ye never answered me question.” Paul frowned in confusion. John reached out and flicked the collar of Paul’s shirt. “McCartney, in a gay bar.”

His eyebrows quirked. Paul moved so they were slightly closer and move his hand from his hip and put it in his jeans pocket. “I’m not doing that here,” he answered firmly.

John drew away. “Yeah, I forgot. Paul never tells the truth unless it’ll benefit ‘im somehow.”

A few years ago – hell, even a few months ago – the look Paul gave him might have been withering. Instead it was merely flat and unimpressed.

They lapsed into silence. Elton continued to build towards a triumphant brass finale. His disco stuff really was shit. John tapped his fingers against the side of the glass, shooting glances at Paul from the corner of his eye. Paul had turned back to look out over the crowd. John wasn’t surprised to notice he was approached a lot, but each time Paul shook his head subtly and smiled. It was a second wonder that he wasn’t recognized once. John wondered whether it had to do with the clientele, or whether Wings was finally coming back to Earth.

Uncertainty made his skin itch. When John glanced at Paul again, he was startled to see Paul already watching him. Something flickered in Paul’s expression. His mouth parted gently. Then he tilted his head to one side, and said, “Have we met?”

John stared at him. _This is it,_ he thought distantly, _he’s finally lost his marbles._

It was the bagpipes, probably.

Narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses, John said, “What?”

“No, I don’t think we have.” Paul leaned back and took in John’s boots, his pale trousers, his linen shirt. When he reached John’s face, he smirked slowly. “I’d have remembered.”

“Give it a rest, Paul.” John wearily looked around for the bartender, but he was up the other end mixing a fruity-looking cocktail. Paul’s eyes prickled his profile. “Stop it,” John told him.

“Mate, I’m sorry. I thought you might like a drink.” A long-fingered hand rested briefly on John’s forearm. “Can I get you one? My treat.”

The weight of Paul’s hand on him made John’s pulse quicken. He swallowed and looked down. A gleam of a silver bracelet caught his eye. For a moment, John simply stared at it stupidly, then it clicked. When he met Paul’s gaze, a well of affection threatened to overcome him. _You sentimental fool,_ he thought of Paul.

“Yeah,” John answered eventually, “alright.”

Paul smiled shyly at him. His gaze lingered before he turned to flag down the bartender. His wrist, when he raised his hand, was slender and fine. John had an urge to run his thumb over the bone there, to feel if Paul’s heartbeat had also doubled.

“I wondered when you two would order.” The bartender leaned over the bar to make himself heard. John looked at his forearms where the muscles bunched. He thought fleetingly of Paul in Greece: tanned from the Mediterranean sun, sea water slithering over the valleys of a taut stomach, his body long and strong. John’s crotch tightened when he recalled pinning Paul to the bed below deck of their shared yacht; of sucking Paul off as everyone else sunbathed above, laughing and sipping cocktails. The dark fan of Paul’s eyelashes as his mouth parted and he arched off the bed, his skin gleaming with sweat, the press of his pubic hair against John’s nose. Paul always smelled like pepper and tobacco and something fainter, something sweet that inarticulately reminded John of guitar wax.

“Had to convince him first,” Paul joked. The bartender glanced at John with a smirk. “Playing hard to get, man?”

“No more than he is,” John quipped. He didn’t realize how multi-layered that sounded until Paul shot him a curious look.

“Um, two scotch and Cokes, I think.” They used to drink that back in ’63. The four of them in another hotel room, giggling and mucking around, John slopping £200 scotch onto the carpet and Paul going, “Oh, whoops-a-daisy!”

The bartender slid two glasses across the counter at them. Paul paid and handed John his drink. The ice clinked gently against his fingers. Meeting John’s gaze, Paul tilted his head to one side and smiled. “Wanna sit down?”

They wound through the crowd. John spied a booth and they slipped into it, Paul keeping a respectable distance between them. Bloody hell, he was serious about this whole charade. John watched him curiously.

Diamond blue light dappled over Paul’s smooth face. Some wrinkles gathered in the corners of his eyes, and he looked only slightly wobbly as he took a sip from his glass, but Paul was still one the most beautiful people John had ever seen. Paul’s shirt gaped slightly at his throat: John glimpsed a one long collarbone and he hated himself for how much he wanted to touch it.

Paul slowly met his gaze. A playful glitter entered his expression. “Suppose introductions are in order.”

“Suppose so,” John echoed. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose and crossed his arms on the table. The leather seat of the round booth warmed the back of his thighs. As bodies swayed to the music, the atmosphere took on a subtropical humidity. John licked his bottom lip briefly, playing for time. He studied Paul’s face.

“My name,” John said, “is Paul McCartney.”

Paul stilled. His lips thinned. John could practically hear the gears in his head begin to whir. _You’re not playin’ it right,_ Paul might have said if they were younger, a hint of a whine in his tone, _c’mon, John, don’t be like that._

“Well.” Paul lifted his glass to his mouth and paused. “Good to meet ye, Paul.” He drank.

Victory simmered in John’s veins. “Likewise,” he drawled, leaning further over his arms, his eyes skittering over Paul’s handsome profile. “What about yerself, kind stranger?”

Paul turned to blink at him. “Oh, I’m John,” he replied sweetly. “John Lennon.”

“Funny name, that.”

“Mm, I’ve always thought so meself. Fairly middle class for a ‘working class hero’.” Paul gave him a smug smile. “As they say.”

John set his jaw. He watched Paul hide a smile in a sip of his drink. The Coke looked black in the low light of the bar. “And what is it yet do for a livin’, Mister Lennon. King of the Universe, yet?”

“Once upon a time,” Paul replied. “I gave that up to bake bread. I find it’s far more satisfyin’ for my spiritual existence.”

“The wonders of yeast on the soul,” John said sourly, and Paul hummed in response. Two could play at this game. “Well,” John started, “I’m a critically acclaimed musician. A real wanker, though everyone thinks I crawled right out of the Lord Jesus’ arse. I don’t do much t’dissuade them. There’s no point, really, when I secretly believe it meself.”  
  
“Critically acclaimed, though,” Paul pointed out. John added, “Only because of me best mate. Without him I’d be fuckin’ nothin’.”

Paul’s expression hardened. “I don’t think that’s true,” he said in a measured tone of voice. “I think you’re actually damned talented.”

“I was once,” John threw back, “before I chucked it all out the window.”

He realized he was holding his glass tightly enough for his knuckles to whiten. John forced himself to loosen his grip. He ran a thumb over the lip of his glass before raising it to take a long slug. The Coke was overly sweet. _Why am I here?_ He wanted to go home. He wanted to take Paul home. He was sick of this.

“I’m sick of this,” John muttered darkly. He avoided Paul’s gaze. “Sod your bloody game, Paul. I’m going.”

Paul’s hand shot out to grab John’s shirt at the shoulder. John glared at his hand, then at Paul, who was biting his lip and frowning. “Sorry.” Paul let go slowly. He swallowed and flicked between John’s eyes and his mouth, a convoluted, inscrutable tilt to his soft features. After a pause, Paul huffed out a humourless laugh. His eyebrows rose as he shook his head. “You’re right,” he said, half to himself. “This was a stupid idea. You go.”

John hovered. “Are you staying?”

In lieu of answering, Paul threw back the rest of his drink. He grimaced as he set the glass down on the table. “Suppose so,” he replied vaguely. “No. I dunno. Might as well just leave.”

Twenty one years of this shite. Twenty one years and John was still as whipped when he first glimpsed Paul at the Fateful Fete. Paul, in a sweet checked shirt. Paul, when he coyly pointed out John’s terrible guitar playing. Paul, letting John lean closer than decorum dictated, his breath hitching as John’s chest pressed against Paul’s back to play the piano.

_Boy, you’re gonna wreck me._

“When did you know?" Paul’s voice broke the quiet of their hotel room. They were in bed together, the room illuminated only by passing traffic lights. His arms were crossed behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.

“When did I know what?” John asked, knowing perfectly well what Paul wanted to hear.

Paul’s arms were muscular. John wanted to touch his dark armpit hair. He wanted to trail a hand down Paul’s shuddering stomach to follow the trail down to that promising thatch between his legs. He remembered his fingers twitching with desire.

“When did ye know this was something…” Paul absently tongued his bottom lip. “When this was somethin’ more than just –”

 Getting off? Playing music? Loving you?

“I dunno,” John replied flippantly. “Last year. Today. Yesterday. Does it matter?”

Paul shifted on the bed. He was still staring at the ceiling. “No.” He sounded very far away. “Suppose not.”

Twenty one years, and John’s heart was full and wanting at thirty nine as it had been at sixteen.

“Fred Gherkin,” he blurted.

Paul frowned. “I’m Fred.” John held out a hand for Paul to shake. “Fred Gherkin. Technically, it’s the Reverend Gherkin, but it’s me day off.”

They watched each other. Paul looked down at John’s hand, a small smirk warming the corner of his mouth. He met John’s gaze slowly and shook hands. “Percy Thrillington,” he said. “Do you do confessions, Father?”

“Aye, sometimes.” Paul’s hand was slightly damp when they touched. John had a mental image of running his tongue down Paul’s salt-sweat stomach, and closed his fist. They shifted back into their original seats. Paul’s knee brushed John’s beneath the table.

“Are ye wantin’ to confess, Mister Thrillington?”

“Call me Percy, please,” Paul demurred. “Mm. Perhaps. Life does that to ye, y’know, it makes you think about stuff, when you’re getting older.”

“The Almighty welcomes us all,” John intoned. He grinned when Paul snorted with laughter. They looked at each other shyly. John’s heart beat faster. “What is it you do, Percy?”

“I’m a band leader. Jazz, actually.”

“You must be getting old.”

Paul tipped his head back when he laughed. “Good point. When I start liking Country and Western I’ll know Death’s knockin’ at me door.”

“At the hospice door,” John added, and Paul grinned into his drink, “Propped up on the pillows. Yellow sunflowers on the table.”

“The women won’t stop bloody weepin’.” John tutted. “I told ‘em the operation would only take _one_  bollock, but they didn't care.”

“Well, they signed up for two, didn’t they.”

“Aye, I’d be hacked off too if such a promise was reneged.”

“Oh, yeah?” A flirtatious undertone warmed his tone. Paul leaned forward over his crossed arms and regarded John with interest. “You a man who likes two bollocks, are you?”

“I hold out for three,” John lamented, “but it’s a pipe dream.”

Paul smirked. “In a manner of speaking.”

A bubble of desire swelled in John’s chest. He gasped in mock affront. “Mister _Thrill_ ington! Why, I never.”

“You will soon, love,” Paul quipped, pinning John with a look, “don’t you worry about that.”

Excitement beat in John’s veins. He made himself take a sip of his warm drink; the ice had started to melt. Paul inhaled subtly when their eyes met again. “Now or later?”

“Ordinarily I’d say both,” Paul replied coolly. “But tonight I’m just not that kind of girl.”

“Give it another drink,” John suggested. Paul put a finger to his chin and pretended to think. “I don’t see why not.”

Taking the hint, John went to get them another round. When he returned, Paul had lit up a cigarette and was in conversation with a lad leaning against their table. John’s sunglasses hid the look he shot the lad, who glanced at him briefly but otherwise remained fixated on Paul.

“Really, you look familiar,” the boy was saying, all white teeth and tight jeans.

Paul accepted the glass John shoved his way with a low, “Ta, love.” Tapping some ash off the end of his cigarette, he smiled wryly up at the kid. “Maybe I’m famous.”

“Or maybe you’re just shite at chatting up,” John interjected.

“Chill out, grandpa.” Giving John the up-down, the lad then pouted in Paul’s direction. “I mean it. I know you, I’m sure of it. Are you a movie star?”

“How about this.” Paul took a drag from his smoke then exhaled politely over his shoulder. “When you remember, come tell me, eh?”

John leaned across the table, sliding his sunglasses down just enough to catch the lad’s eye. With a saccharine smile, John said, “He means go fuck yerself, sonny.”

“Bit harsh, John,” Paul noted, watching the lad storm off in a huff.

“He knew we were ‘ere,” John objected. The ice clinked irritably in his glass as he took a slug. “He shouldn’t ‘ave assumed. Comin’ over like he’s –”

“In a club?” Paul raised an eyebrow at him.

“The cheek of it,” John retorted, although he found himself smirking. Their legs pressed together beneath the table. After a companionable pause, during which John’s skin began to warm with their proximity, John nudged Paul’s arm. “That happen a lot, then?”

“What? Getting chatted up?” When John shrugged, Paul brought his cigarette up to take another pull. His lips made a short sucking sound as the smoke curled from his mouth. “No. Not really. Not anymore.” Paul caught John’s gaze and smiled softly. “M’getting old.”

“Bollocks you’re gettin’ old. You’re the spring fuckin’ chicken. Give us a smoke.” John watched Paul bring out his pack of cigarettes. After a beat, he added, “At least you don’t have grey hair.”

Paul choked on an exhale. “Are you joking?” He handed both cigarette and lighter over to John with wide eyes. “Linda thinks I should use hair dye.”

“Smart lady,” John smirked.

“Shut it, you.” Grinning, Paul propped his elbow on the table, his cigarette hand held up by his head. As John greedily sucked down his cigarette, Paul absently bit his bottom lip. “It’s the touring. That’s what she’s said, anyroad. Reckons I put too much into it.” His eyes flicked away to look at the smoke that trailed up towards the ceiling. Blue lights dappled up the columns and darted across Paul’s smooth face. When he next spoke, his voice was deliberately nonchalant. “We wonder if I should quit.”

John looked at him sharply. “’We’.”

Paul held his gaze for an instant before focusing on his cigarette. He tapped the ash into the ashtray and raised it slowly back to his mouth. “She,” he relented.

Fancy _Linda_ having enough. She was supposed to be his bedrock, wasn’t she? John could not conceive of a universe in which Paul would give up music for anything. _And I’d know,_ he thought bitterly. As much as curiously nibbled at him, there was something off-kilter about the conversation; something shifting beneath the surface that had happened only once before, in Key West. John banished the thought before it could fully form.

“You weren’t kidding about the confession,” John said, catching Paul’s eyes, which glittered in the gloom. John once thought he could read Paul like a book, but that was before he realized he was only glimpsing his own reflection.

Paul ducked his head and grinned. “No, I s’pose not.” He huffed out a laugh, toying with the cigarette between his fingers. After a beat, he said, “I don’t know why I told you that.”

John shifted uncomfortably. “S’alright, man.”

“No, I mean.” His bottom lip, when he bit it, looked full and soft. John fidgeted with his sunglasses. “We’ve not talked like that in –”

“Months,” John supplied. He cleared his throat. His cigarette burned low to his knuckles; he mechanically took a drag.

“Months.” The word seemed too short for the depth of what had passed between them. Paul crossed his arms on the table in front of him and watched the ember bloom dully in the blue light. “Months,” he repeated. “How come? How did we fuck up this badly?”

Yoko came instantly to mind. They glanced at each other. Paul said, “What I mean is –”

“Paul.” This was not how he’d imagined this conversation would happen. “Don’t.”

Paul’s fine brows drew together. “Enough time has passed, John. I think it’s time we just say –”

“Not here.” John’s throat swelled. He stubbed out his cigarette in a swift motion. When Paul opened his mouth, he quietened him with a raised hand. A dull anger burned in his chest. “I don’t wanna hear it, mate. I didn’t come ‘ere to dig through those fuckin’ skeletons that I thought we’d _agreed,_ Paul, to _leave well enough alone –_ ”

“How can we move on, John?” Paul leaned forward, his expression tight and intent. “Because I want to. God knows I’ve done my penance. I don’t want to lug what happened between us like stones around my bloody neck.”

John forced himself to swallow words he would regret. “Not here,” he bit out. “Paul, I fuckin’ mean it. Not here. Not now.”

“Alright.” As swiftly as he’d coiled, Paul unwound: settling back in his seat, finishing his cigarette, taking a sip of his drink. When he glanced across the bar and made to gather his things, sudden understanding pounded in John’s jugular.

Paul got out of the booth. He toyed with the lighter in his hand as he looked down at John. Raising one eyebrow, he said, “Coming?”

Sometimes it was better not to overthink things. John clambered out of the booth. When they were standing in front of one another, he still had to look up slightly into Paul’s calm eyes. A slow smile warmed Paul’s mouth.

“Oh, shut up,” John snapped, and stalked out of the bar.

He had no idea what time it was. John emerged into the street and peered up at the dark blue sky, which was shot through with low clouds and illuminated from below. The clamour of the city at night clouded in the humid air. Men lingered out the front of the club, smoking and talking, some of them leaning against the brick façade and watching as Paul came cheerily down the steps to reach John’s side. When Paul touched his forearm, John could only look at his hand. He swallowed dryly.

“Up here.” Paul looked mildly amused. When they looked at each other, John felt something loosen inside him. Tilting his head to one side, Paul reached up and gently pulled off John’s sunglasses.

Paul’s eyes softened. His smile was small. “Better?”

“Sod off.”

The sound of Paul’s laugh made John think, dizzyingly, of Paris.

“Yours or mine?” Paul called to John’s retreating back.

“Neither,” John replied over his shoulder, “if you’re gonna be a twat about it.”

There was a certain thrill to hearing, rather than seeing, Paul’s grin in his voice when he said, “Will Percy or Paul be accompanying you this evening?”

John listened to the sound of Paul’s light footsteps behind him as they started up the block. A warm breeze stirred his loose pink shirt, making it ripple over his flat stomach. The Coke and scotch warmed his veins. Percy or Paul? _There’s no difference,_ a small voice told him, _it’s still a game to him._

“Is this the part where I let you sulk,” Paul wondered, sounding far too happy, “or is this where ye let me hail a taxi and we can get the hell out of here?”

An ugly tangle tightened in John’s chest. He whipped around and made Paul stop dead in his tracks, hands in the pockets of his jeans, looking comically surprised. His fine dark fringe curled over his arched eyebrows; and his eyes, which were quizzical, were bright beneath the streetlamp.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked. There was no buoyancy in his tone this time; John realized with a start that he sounded nervous. Paul regarded him carefully. “Johnny?”

 _Fuck you,_ John thought suddenly. Another scenario came to mind: alone, together, in America, standing in another bland hotel room corridor; Paul, in a bathrobe; John, furious and mussed-haired. Through the ajar door, the tangled sheets on their bed seemed to beckon like a siren call.

John remembered meeting Paul’s confused eyes and realizing, _This won’t be enough for me,_ in the same moment he knew that it would be enough for Paul. Sneaking around, toying with each other, whispering heated endearments before returning coolly to the studio. Paul always wanted a slice from both sides of the cake.

“You won’t leave Linda.” The words pierced the space between them. Paul’s eyes, if possible, grew wider.

“Linda?” he echoed.

“You won’t leave Linda, or fuckin’ Wings, or any of it.” John’s pulse ran swift and shallow. He couldn’t remember his fists by his sides, or the visceral sensation of blood pumping in his veins. “You can’t,” he started, somewhat strangled, “just pick me up when you’re bored in Manhattan.”

There was a terrible silence.

Them, at Weybridge, on a freezing November evening. The air suffused with weed and the smell of Paul’s peppery cologne. John, curling into Paul’s side, feeling the luxurious weight of Paul’s arm around his waist. And the words that left his mouth as easily as breathing: _Oh, I love you._

Paul was paper thin. He breathed quickly through his nose, his gaze pinned to John - and beneath his mask, so subtly John almost missed it, there was the same flicker that had appeared when they lay together, lips catching, and Paul murmured, _I can’t go any faster._

But he had. _You had!_ John wanted to yell. In Scotland, in that tiny shitty kitchen. On that weekend that simultaneously seemed endless and finite.

“Well,” Paul had said, pretending to look out the window as he filled the kettle. He glanced over at John and shot him a sideways smile. “S’pose that’s why I love you.”

“I’m not bored in Manhattan,” Paul breathed. The words seemed to catch in his throat; he swallowed abruptly. “John. Why do you think I came up to you at the bar?”

The fact that there was no real answer made John’s lip curl. “Fuck off back to Scotland,” he spat. “New York’s not big enough for the both of us.”

“It would be,” Paul said quickly, bravely, “if you let it.”

“If I let _you_ ,” John corrected.

“Yeah.” Paul regarded him with an inscrutable expression. Music drifted down the street towards them. The passing traffic was an endless stream of colour and noise. Paul remained, like a foothold in the unscaleable cliff face of John’s existence. “Yeah, actually.” He blinked slowly. “If you let me back in.”

John felt his edges tremble.

“John, love.” Hesitantly, as if he expected John to bolt, Paul started to walk towards him. As the distance closed, John felt his pulse loud in his ears. When Paul stopped less than a foot away, he could feel his body heat. His cologne caught and held on the warm late summer air. This near, John could take in the fine wrinkles in the corners of Paul’s eyes, down the sides of his clever mouth, even the soft loose skin of his neck. John’s fingers twitched with the desire to touch.

“I approached you in that bar,” Paul continued, his voice soft but matter of fact, “because you’re still the most beautiful man I’ve ever known.”

John felt something warm slip over his skin, from his head to his toes. The hair on his arms prickled. “Say again,” he ordered hoarsely.

“I can do better than that,” Paul promised, and he pressed their mouths together.

The feeling of Paul’s lips was so familiar, so soft and sweet, that John felt part of him break away. He took Paul by his broad shoulders and pulled him close, looping his arms around his neck, drawing him in until they shared the same breath. Their lips slid together tenderly. John became aware of Paul’s hand on his waist, and the way his thumb smoothed over the jut of John’s hipbone. Paul’s other hand rested warmly on John’s lower back. Ripples of pleasure swept through and over him, making him breathe shallowly through his nose as they kissed again and again. John tilted his head to take Paul deeper. He touched his tongue to Paul’s lower lip. The sound Paul made sent something deep and longing to settle in the pit of his gut, and he exhaled unsteadily.

Paul broke the kiss. His eyes were blurry and blacked-out, his lips swollen where John had pressed hard against them. After a couple of blinks, he smiled softly.

“Trust you to draw it out,” John breathed.

Raising one eyebrow, Paul said, “Didn’t want to push my luck.”

John gave him a flat look. “And playin’ that fuckin’ stupid name game doesn’t fall into the category?”

Paul hummed in the back of his throat, his smile tugging playfully at the corner of his mouth. “Well, it’d been a while. Had to be patient, didn’t I?”

“Aye, a great virtue of yours,” John retorted, and Paul grinned. “It worked, though.”

“Yeah, yeah.” John lazily looked down at Paul’s mouth. He ducked in to kiss him once, quickly, before pulling away, Paul making a disgruntled noise as he did so. Paul kept his hand resting on John’s hip; the warm weight of it sent a shudder of anticipation up John’s spine and he regarded Paul through half-mast eyes.

“So, Percy.” When John licked his lips, he could taste Paul’s mouth. “How about this taxi, then?”

An unexpected flicker of surprise crossed Paul’s face. He leaned back slightly to watch John. “Really? You want to…”

“I could easily not,” John replied dryly.

“No! No.” Colour had risen in Paul’s cheeks; he tightened his grip on John’s hip when John smirked. “Shut up.” Biting down on a smile, he said, “Alright. Come ‘ead, then.”

If John was soft, he’d take Paul’s hand. Instead, he put his hands in his trouser pockets and together they resumed walking up the block. The city washed around them. John was hyperaware of each movement Paul made: the sound of his steady breathing, the way he tipped his head back to look at the sky scrapers against the cobalt sky, the stir of his white shirt against his body. John watched him from his peripheral vision and felt himself begin to warm with nostalgic desire.

“Oh, shit!” Paul dashed away towards the side of the road, thrusting his hand into the air. A taxi zoomed straight past. Paul turned to watch, exclaiming, “Bloody hell!”

John fought down a fond grin. “Welcome to New York.”

“No one’s got any manners in this sodding town,” Paul complained. He put his hands on his hips and huffed. Pursing his lips in irritation, he turned to look at John. When he noticed John’s smirk, he frowned. “What?”

 _I’ve missed you._ “Nothin’. Here, you’re useless at this.”

John came over to the curb and within the minute a taxi was pulling over. Paul shot him a _not bad_ look, and John teased, “And that’s how it’s done, McCartney.”

“Very impressive,” Paul retorted. They climbed into the back of the taxi. In lieu of air conditioning the windows were wound all the way down, bringing the smell of the smoke and heady city air into the cab. _[Things didn't have to be the way they was, baby,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3y7aJAbJ19U)_ Marvin crooned from the radio. The driver, whose eyes were hidden beneath a flat cap, looked over his shoulder.

“Where to, fellas?”

Paul leaned forward in his seat. “The Grand, please.” The American accent was back. John raised a wry eyebrow as Paul settled back against the pleather.

“Get you,” John commented. His heart beat quick when Paul met his gaze.

“Wings has perks,” he pointed out coyly.

John snorted. “No wonder you’re not gonna land.”

“No.” Paul looked out of the window as they pulled away from the curb. Their thighs nudged together with the motion of the car. “I won’t. I can’t, actually.”

“You’re an addict,” John told him, then, “Give us a smoke.”

“Get your own.” Paul handed him the crumpled pack. John lit two and passed one over, pocketing the pack as he did so. When Paul noticed, John merely shrugged and took a drag. Rolling his eyes, Paul brought his cigarette to his mouth.

“Probably, yeah. You should tour again.” Paul made a face at John’s corresponding look of disgust. “What? You never know. Surely you’ve thought about it, touring and stuff, goin’ back on the road.”

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it.” Fat chance he was going through that charade again. John took a short suck of smoke. “S’not me, Paul. I don’t care about touring. Never ‘ave. All I need is me guitar and a studio and I’m set.” He tapped some ash out of the window. “Besides, s’a waste of time and money.”

“You don’t tour for the money,” Paul argued pedantically.

“No shit,” John retorted. “It’s more fuckin’ trouble than it’s worth.”

“You tour for the _experience.”_ Through a cloud of blue smoke, Paul added, “You can’t capture that on a record. The feeling of a full stadium. The roar of the crowd.”

“Please, keep going.”

“Bugger off.” Paul picked a fleck of tobacco off his tongue. John had the peculiar urge to suck on his fingers. “Not sure if we’ll tour the next album. Might do. Depends on the lads, like.”

Christ, not bloody Wings again. Irritation rankled within him. “Fuckin’ hell, can we not discuss your spurting muse?”

If they weren’t in a taxi, John knew Paul would have smirked and teased, _We can discuss other spurting things, if you like,_ but instead he thinned his lips in John’s direction and took a drag from his cigarette. “Fine, have it your way.”

“Look, I’m pleased for ye,” John blurted, and Paul stared at him, clearly taken aback.

“You are?”

“Just… be Percy. Alright?” They watched each other. John’s eyebrows quirked: _got a problem?_ “Be Percy. Paul can go fondle his spurting muse and Percy can fondle my –”

Paul suddenly spluttered on a lungful of smoke.

John hid his smirk in his cigarette. “Went down the wrong way, eh, Paulie?”

“I’ll take you the wrong way,” Paul muttered hoarsely, but he was smiling.

The taxi swept through the late night traffic. A clock on the dashboard clicked over to 11:05. John gazed at it as he smoked. He wondered if Sean was in bed yet, or if the nanny had left some dinner in the oven for him. Yoko was likely out at a restaurant, talking intently with businessmen over cocktails. Maybe when he got up to Paul’s room he’d call home, just to talk to Sean or to listen to him breathe.

Paul’s leg was close to his on the seat. As the taxi swung around a corner, they pressed together. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, John watched from the corner of his eye as Paul’s right hand slowly moved until it was on John’s thigh.

John’s skin burned at the contact. Licking his upper lip, he chanced a look at Paul’s profile. Paul had propped his left elbow against the side of the door, his cigarette hand held near his head, his focus on the passing cityscape. The dull rumble of traffic and the sound of the underground trembled beneath them.

Here they were, two unmoored Beatles, adrift in a taxi on late summer night.

He experimentally flexed the muscle of his thigh. Paul’s mouth pinched into a smile around his cigarette, although he didn’t look away from the window. He began to sweep his thumb over the side of John’s leg. A quiet curl of pleasure unwound through John’s body. He thought of Paul’s hand sliding further up to cup his groin. The way it would feel: those long fingers firm on his cock, the languid way in which Paul tugged him off; whether he still bit his lip when he concentrated, blinking dewily as those dark lashes fanned each time he glanced up to gauge John’s reaction, his mouth red and damp and full.

John shifted forward in his seat. Paul’s palm inched further up. His breath hitched when Paul darted a quick look at where he was touching John. Their eyes met. Paul regarded him coolly and tilted his wrist to bring his cigarette to his mouth. Smoke spiralled up to the cab roof.

“Percy,” John warned lowly.

Paul gave him a half-hitched smile. “Yes, love?”

White lights slid over the interior of the taxi. With a sharp inhale, John pulled away to watch the Grand Hotel slip closer, the tide of traffic bringing their cab to a rest just before the elaborate entrance. Paul’s gaze prickled on his profile as John leaned forward to pay the driver, saying, “Have a good night, alright?”

Before they got out of the cab, Paul squeezed John’s thigh once. His hand felt like a brand on John’s skin.

When they emerged onto the street, John stopped Paul suddenly. “We can’t walk in together,” he explained. “One Beatle is bad. Two is bedlam.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Paul glanced toward the enormous double doors of the Grand, where a doorman was greeting a couple who clicked up the stone steps. He looked back at John and pursed his lips. “Alright, I’ll go ‘round the back. Here. I’ll meet y’up there, alright?”

John took the room key and raised an eyebrow. “Room 69. How old are ye?”

Paul grinned and waggled a finger. “Old enough! See you.”

The journey into the hotel was uneventful. Not so long ago John would have regarded the gold fittings and creamy walls as bourgeois nonsense, but that was before he got a bad back and sitting on a nice, big armchair was a good deal nicer than a fuckin’ futon. The air conditioning whirred in the corridors. Enormous windows opened onto the bustling city streets. John passed a few people as he strode up to the sixth floor, women in evening wear and men in suits. Only once did someone stir and go, “Is that – Did you see…?”

John closed the door to Paul’s presidential suite behind him. The place was enormous: three sprawling rooms, a king-sized bed, a fully stocked bar. Lamp light warmed the modern furnishings and illuminated the tasteful art on the walls. John pulled off his boots and dumped his jacket. After turning on the television and muting it, he went to use the loo.

The man in the mirror looked old. John wet his face with water and dried it off with a towel. Thinning auburn hair still sprung fluffily from his head. His beaky nose plunged towards a sullen mouth. There was no echo of the young man he once was. Maybe Paul liked grey hair and wrinkles more than Yoko. That Havadtoy bastard certainly didn’t have a line in his smooth, Californian face.

John padded back out into the living room. The pale blue carpet was sumptuous beneath his bare feet. He picked up the telephone and rang down for the desk to put him through to the Dakota. When the nanny answered, John immediately said, “How’s Sean?”

“Hello, Mister Lennon. He’s fine. I put him down an hour ago.” She paused to yawn. “Do you want me to stay the night?”

Across the room, the door opened and closed. Paul caught his eye and smiled.

“Yeah,” John replied absently. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Sean alright?” Paul asked once John put the receiver down.

John watched as Paul puttered around putting his shoes away neatly in the wardrobe, undoing his belt, curling it into a loop. “How’d ye know it was about Sean?”

After a puzzled pause, Paul said, “Well, who else?”

“I coulda been callin’ Yoko,” John pointed out. He sat on the edge of the double bed. The covers dipped beneath him.

“S’pose so.” Paul shrugged and leaned against the doorframe to the bedroom. After another beat, he added, “How’s she doing, alright?” Paul laughed at John’s flat look. “I’m not a bloody ogre, John. I’m just being polite.”

“It’s me, Paul,” John reminded him. “Ye don’t have t’be polite. I already know you’re a bastard.”

“Right, I forgot,” Paul said sarcastically. The television flickered in the corner, some political candidate mouthing a speech onscreen. Cool air from the air conditioning mingled with the heady warmth from the open windows. Distant city sounds drifted up to meet them.

John shifted so he leaned against the headboard. There were two chocolates on the pillows. He ate them both.

“Yoko’s fine,” he said indistinctly. THE GRAND HOTEL, the wrappers said. There was a little illustration of the hotel’s façade on the foil. John folded it up to give to Sean; he’d like something so naff. “Kicked me out of the house today.”

Paul’s laugh was only slightly incredulous. “Sorry, she did what?”

“Kicked me out of the house. The stars, you know.” John glanced up at Paul and made a vague gesture. “They said I ought to nick off. So I nicked off.”

“Hence the gay bar,” Paul finished, as John agreed, “Hence the gay bar.”

“Blimey. Thank God for Yoko, eh.”

John scowled at him. “Christ, give ‘im _five_ minutes. Good old Paulie never lets ye down.”

“No, I meant…” Paul sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Never mind. I meant that if you’d not been out and stuff, I wouldn’t have seen ye at the bar.”

True to form, John felt like a fool. “Oh,” he said, “right.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you think the worst of me.” Pushing off from the doorframe, Paul came over to sit on the bed. He settled beside John’s outstretched legs, steadying his weight with one arm over the side of John’s crossed ankles. Paul tucked one leg beneath him. When he looked up at John, he was struck by how young he looked. Even with the wrinkles and the sad, soft eyes, he was still Paul.

Maybe he’d always just been Paul.

“You’ve not got a good track record.” John watched him quietly and toyed with the buttons on his own shirt. “You can give me that, at least.”

“Neither ‘ave you,” Paul pointed out.

“Shit, alright.”

Yoko told him once that he despite his aversion to conflict, he got a thrill from instigating it. “You are always at the centre of the storm,” she said, gently entwining their fingers. “You hate to be loved, but you cannot live without it. Do you see?”

John couldn’t remember if he’d seen anything at all. He was probably still blind.

“You know,” Paul started, looking out the window. “As y’get older, you think about a lot of stuff. Things you did wrong or stupid stuff you’ve said over the years. I’ve tried to make good when I can, you know, with people I’ve hurt. But all this time, and I never said it to you.” He slowly turned back to John. A flicker of vulnerability softened his calm expression. “We’ve never apologized to each other. Not once, John. In all the time I’ve known you.”

“We never had to,” John said quietly. “We know each other too fuckin’ well, Paul, for all that ‘sorry’ shite.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Paul chewed at his bottom lip, his head ducked somewhat so he regarded John through dark lashes. The silence stretched between them. John found he couldn’t look away. After a long while, Paul said, “What if we did, though?”

John laughed once, the sound more pained than he anticipated. “We’re not kids, Paul. We can’t just say sorry and move on.”

“Why can’t we?” Paul looked unexpectedly genuine about the whole thing. “Why can’t we let ourselves do that? We’ve got a right, haven’t we?”

“Because.” John abruptly pulled his knees up to his chest and looped his arms around them.

“Because why?”

“Because it’s more than sayin’ sorry!” John snapped. “Ye think I don’t wish this could be fixed with one word? That we could go _back_ to how things were, before Yoko and Linda, before the fuckin’ kids, before Apple and that shite – you think I don’t want that? You think I want to be makin’ bread dough for the rest of me miserable fuckin’ life?”

John breathed heavily through his nose. They stared at each other.

Paul’s lips pressed together, as if he were stemming a tide. “And tonight?” he asked softly. “If we could go back, for tonight?”

Anger rushed hotly into John’s chest. The words he longed to say splintered in his throat. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “I can’t do that.” When Paul’s brows drew gently together, John found he was shaking his head. “It’s not enough. It’s not enough.”

“John. John, love.” Then Paul was there, pulling him against his chest, his strong arms wrapped around John’s shoulders. John breathed in the scent of sweat and salt and the warmth of Paul’s skin. He thought of kissing in Paris, of fucking in Milan, of loving since Liverpool. “Baby, I’m here. I’m here, John.”

 _Sorry._ John kissed the word into the side of Paul’s neck. _Sorry._ He mouthed Paul’s jugular. _I’m sorry._ Lips trailed along a defined jawline.

And when he reached Paul’s mouth, John thought, _God, I love you._

When they kissed, it was easy as breathing. Their mouths slid gently together. Paul tasted slightly minty, like he’d had some chewing gum before coming up to the room. The notion of Paul preparing himself like that made John smooth his thumb along Paul’s bottom lip, dipping it to touch the edge of his teeth. Paul’s mouth parted. His eyes, when John found them, were burred and soft.

“John,” Paul breathed. He inhaled when John smoothed his thumb over his mouth, coaxing it open. Paul’s eyelashes stuttered. John murmured, “Oh, I want you.”

“Have me.” The words were raw, broken. Paul’s tongue pressed against the top of John’s thumb. “John, have me. One more time.”

John watched where Paul sucked his thumb into his mouth. A shiver of electricity coursed through his hand, arm, chest. He swallowed thickly.

“I can’t stop,” John admitted lowly. “I can’t do this once, Paul. I don’t have it in me.”

He couldn’t put words to the feelings that thrummed through him. _I’m too old,_ and, _You’re too much,_ and, _Please don’t leave me._

Paul’s hazel eyes swam before him. _Stay,_ John thought to him, curling his free fingers into the short hair at the nape of Paul’s neck. _You’re the only one I want to stay._

Paul exhaled unsteadily as John’s thumb pressed into the dip of his chin. “For what it’s worth,” he whispered, “I can’t either.”

There was a fist in John’s throat. He felt something prick his eyes, enough that he blinked rapidly, not wanting to look away from Paul for even an instant. He flattened his palm against the side of Paul’s neck; his pulse pumped warmly against his skin.

“What, then?” John searched Paul’s face, desperation and hope tangling inside him. “Tell me.”

Paul closed the short distance between them to kiss him softly. John’s pulse thundered in his veins. When he spoke, those few words bloomed against their mouths. Paul pressed in once, twice, his lips softening the heat that simmered beneath John’s surface. He caught John’s bottom lip with his teeth and toyed with it, pulling away to tenderly soothe it with his tongue. _You have me._ The realization swept through him like warm water. John felt himself slip beneath the current. They were dissolving.

“I’ll go,” John managed, lost for breath. “I’ll go with you.”

Paul’s fingers tightened in John’s shirt. “I never stopped, John.” They pressed their mouths together, the moment shifting into one of urgency.

John felt as if he would burst. “I know.” He tilted his head to draw Paul in, down, against him.

 _Twenty one years,_ he thought dizzily. _And it feels like the first time I kissed you._

**Author's Note:**

> find me over [here!](stonedlennon.tumblr.com) i really hope you liked this. please lemme know what you thought. and yes.... this will be a series. a slow burn, angsty, realistic, canon-divergent series.
> 
> also, as a final note, several of the moments that are referenced in the narrative are actually part of my entry for the imminent mclennon fic exchange 2017, so keep an eye out for that one. thank you for reading!


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